


The Old Gentaran Boy's Club

by Lenore



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Aliens, M/M, Pretending to Be Gay, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a temple of man-loving, and Spock really wants to get inside to take some readings. Kirk proposes a logical course of action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Gentaran Boy's Club

**Author's Note:**

> Two great prompts that go great together! Thanks to [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/) for suggesting "pretending to be gay" (sorry I didn't write it with your pairing!) and [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) for "alien rituals."

"I do not understand your proposed course of action, Captain. Please explain," Spock says with a mulish expression.

Okay, so actually his expression is perfectly, annoyingly neutral, but Jim suspects there's stubbornness lurking under there somewhere. He suspects a lot of things about Spock.

"You wanted into that building to explore the energy readings, right?"

"Affirmative," Spock answers, with a quizzical wrinkle of his forehead.

"So, that building is a holy temple of man-loving," Jim tells him, "according to the very helpful Gentaran young lady I was just talking to. Ordinarily, offworlders aren't permitted inside, but at three bells, which apparently is very soon, they're having some kind of ritual, and we're welcome to attend. Just so long as we worship at the old altar of homosexuality together, if you know what I mean."

Spock considers this a moment. "Then your plan is indeed reasonable, Captain. Proceed."

Of all the things that Jim has expected never to hear, this perhaps tops the list: Commander Spock granting him permission to make a move on him. It's fairly paralyzing, actually, and suddenly Jim can't picture how this would work exactly, how he might lift his hand and place it against Spock's cheek, turn his chin, press their lips together. His mind remains stubbornly blank of images of him getting spitty and intimate with his first officer.

"Perhaps you would prefer if I proceeded?" Spock says.

Jim doesn't _think_ Spock is mocking him, although he has no way of being sure.

Spock places a hand on Jim's hip. His arm is stiff at the elbow, and he stands so that there are several feet of daylight between their bodies. It looks as if he's trying to shake Jim's hand, and his aim is just really bad.

Jim raises an eyebrow at him. "Seriously? That's all you've got?"

"I am having difficulty finding the proper motivation."

"Can't you just—" Jim waves his hand. "I don't know. Pretend I'm Lt. Uhura or something?"

"I do not believe I possess that ability, no," Spock says.

Jim isn't sure why this nettles him, but it does. "Oh, fine then."

If you want something done right, do it yourself, Jim thinks. He angles his head and darts in. A blitz-style kiss. That always works for him. Only Spock doesn't understand that his part in this plan is to stay still and wait to be lightning struck. He zigs when Jim zags. Their noses bump, and their teeth clink together.

Jim sighs. "We're really bad at being gay." He thumbs away blood from his bottom lip.

"Perhaps we will improve with practice," Spock says. His gaze is fastened on the entrance to the temple. "I believe they are preparing to begin the ritual. Should we not make our way inside?"

The interior of the building looks more like a theater than a temple to Jim's architecturally untrained eye. There is a raised dais in the center of the room, closed off by a pair of curtains. Men settle in couples, audience-like, on brightly colored cushions that are scattered around the floor. Spock and Jim follow suit.

"Why is it so hot in here?" Jim asks, peeling his shirt away from his body, already sweating.

"I do not share your discomfort, Captain. Vulcans are well-adapted for warm temperatures," Spock says, making Jim want to elbow him in the ribs.

Their neighbors to the right—a man who looks to be in his forties and a boy who is much younger—lean in to each other, smiling, and begin to kiss. From the soft breathy sighs coming from behind Jim, their neighbors to the left must be doing the same thing.

"Um." Jim licks his lips nervously. "When on Gentara, do as the Gentarans…I guess." Spock looks puzzled, and Jim tries to explain. "It's an old Earth saying that means—" He waves his hand. "Never mind."

"I believe I comprehend the relevance," Spock says, and before Jim has the chance to make any reply, he has Spock's mouth pressed snugly up against his.

Gentle pressure and the faint touch of tongue against his lip, and fifteen years of post-pubescent instinct take over. Jim opens his mouth and kisses back, his tongue flirting with Spock's. If he'd ever thought to wonder what Spock tastes like, he might have guessed slightly of metal, a telltale hint of Spock's more robotic qualities. Or maybe like something vegetative and bristly, a last reminder of the scrubby Vulcan landscape that is no more. What he would not have anticipated is that Spock tastes simply of salt and sweet, surprisingly human.

A murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd. Up on the stage two men appear, one pale, one dark, both dressed in ceremonial robes. They acknowledge one another formally with a cross between a bow and a martial arts pose. The audience claps exuberantly. Jim and Spock join in; it's only good manners. The men on stage exchange smiles that are intimate, almost secretive, as if no one else exists but the two of them.

From somewhere backstage comes the sound of a drum, a firm, simple beat. The curtains part to reveal a bed, covered in a white sheet. Jim fidgets a little, because this looks a lot like...but no. It couldn't be.

Except that it is.

The two performers reach for one another, unhooking clasps on clothing, and their robes fall away, leaving them naked. They walk the few steps to the bed hand-in-hand and lie down together. They embrace, and begin to kiss and touch. All around the room couples mirror what is happening on stage. There is the soft rustling of clothing being removed, the fleshy sounds of bare skin against bare skin, startled gasps, deep groans torn from the backs of throats.

Jim's mouth falls open and refuses to close. "I think the universal translator must have confused the word for 'ritual' with the word for 'orgy,'" he says, trying to make a joke. It's not funny, and even if it had been, Spock would have given him the same blank look anyway.

Their neighbors shoot them dirty glances for talking instead of...getting their ritual on.

Spock checks his tricorder. "We do not yet have enough data for a meaningful analysis, Captain."

Jim nods. They've come this far. They're not going to leave empty-handed. "Let's do this thing then."

He fists his hand in Spock's shirt, and Spock comes easily. There's something strangely satisfying about that. Jim often thinks that he and Spock—whatever Spock's future self says to the contrary—are mismatched gears that are just going to clank and catch against each other for as long as they keep up this misbegotten partnership. And yet, when they fit their mouths together in a kiss, this too comes easily.

Spock cups Jim's jaw in one hand and strokes his tongue along Jim's teeth, a deliberate, breath-robbing exploration. Spock's fingers inch up a little at Jim's waist, touching bare skin. Jim realizes with a start that this is no accident, that his shirt hasn't just gotten rucked up on its own. Spock is _caressing_ him. On purpose. Spock, who is not an automaton at all, but a person who has actual _sex_.

Suddenly, Jim is sweltering, not on the outside, not because the room is hot. He swivels his hips desperately, trying to keep his hard-on away from Spock. On stage, the fair man is kneeling between the dark one's legs, his head urgently bobbing. Jim's fingers curl unconsciously into Spock's shoulder. He closes his eyes. He's thinking of science, he insists to himself.

The tricorder makes a low beep, and Jim opens his eyes again, hopefully. But the lights are still busily blinking, and he doesn't need Spock to tell him what that means.

"I believe some nudity will be required if we are not to offend our Gentaran hosts," Spock points out, oh-so helpfully.

"Yeah. Fine," Jim says, stripping his shirt up over his head. He's not going to be the shrinking violet here. If Spock can do this without losing his cool, then so can Jim.

Spock removes his shirt too, and they press into each other's arms again. Jim bites his lip to keep from crying out at the sensation of naked chest to naked chest. Surprisingly Spock isn't so circumspect, and a low, rough sound comes from the back of his throat. His eyes are darker than ever, not the least bit cold, but liquid and hot. This does something to Jim, strips away whatever compunction he has about rubbing his erection against Spock's thigh. He's startled to find that he's not the only one who's hard.

"It is a logical physiological response given the stimulus," Spock says, although not without a hint of breathlessness.

He rubs at Jim's nipple. His thumb is callused (which Jim would not have guessed), and feels amazingly good. This time Jim is powerless to keep the moan from spilling out of him. Spock kisses his neck, finding first that spot right where Jim's pulse beats that always makes his toes curl, then that place behind his ear, and a sweet spot under his jaw that he didn't even know about. Spock reads his body's responses, Jim realizes, the way he reads that damned tricorder.

This makes Jim want— _need_ —to give back as good as he gets. He bites at Spock's lips, which Spock enjoys if the slight catch in his breath is any indication. Jim drags his palms down Spock's back, his thumbs tracing the length of spine. He cups Spock's ass in his hands. Spock is so thin everywhere else, but here he's round and firm. Generous.

On stage, the men are fucking, the pale one's legs draped over the other's shoulders. All around them men are clenched together, writhing.

Spock glances down at the tricorder, his hand still curled, almost possessively, around Jim's hip. "The analytical program will not be finished for another fifteen minutes. I believe we will need to follow the ritual through to its completion."

Jim grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his palms. If Spock keeps saying things like that, the ritual is going to be over way too soon. He does manage to get his pants off without embarrassing himself, at least. Spock divests himself of the rest of his clothes as well. And then he's, shit, _naked_. Jim stares. He knew that Spock was hard, _felt_ it for God's sake, hot and heavy, pressed insistently against his leg. But that's different somehow from seeing it, blood-dark and wet at the tip, resting needily against Spock's stomach.

"God," Jim mutters under his breath, hopefully soft enough not to be heard.

Jim has always kept to women, because there were always plenty of them around, and he likes women. He's used to them. In the past, he's taken this to mean that men hold no attraction for him. He's forced to revise that opinion now.

Spock closes his hand around Jim's cock, his fingers not nearly as cool as Jim would have guessed they'd be. There's a slight edge of mutiny in the touch, which is borne out when Spock asks, "Permission to take command, Captain?"

Any blood in Jim's body that hasn't already rushed to his cock takes the opportunity to rectify that situation. Somehow he manages to nod. He has the uncomfortable suspicion that from now on any sex he has that doesn't involve this particular request being spoken low and throaty right against his ear is going to be terribly disappointing.

Spock pushes him back against the cushions, settling between his legs, and they kiss until the inside of Jim's head is ringing from the lack of oxygen. The sounds and smell of sex are thick in the humid air, and Jim would swear he sees a fine sheen of sweat on Spock's cool Vulcan forehead. He smiles, feeling more triumphant about that than is probably to his credit, and leans up to bite at Spock's nipple. Reaction ripples through Spock's body like live current, and then he's lunging, without a trace of Vulcan restraint, lifting Jim's legs up to curve around his waist, pushing their hips together.

"Shit!" Jim bucks up into the thrust. Spock taking command of him is the hottest fucking thing _ever_.

They kiss, sloppy and rough, and rut against one another, their cocks sliding slickly together. Jim presses his fingers into the strong muscles of Spock's shoulders. He doesn't know if it's possible to leave marks on Vulcan skin, but he sure as hell is going to try.

The room echoes with the cries of men in the throes of orgasm. Jim's lungs feel like they're scalded, and his thighs tremble with every thrust of Spock's body. There's a razor wire of pride running through him that doesn't want to be the first to come. But then Spock presses his mouth against Jim's neck, growling out something in Vulcan, biting down on paper-thin skin, hard enough that he's probably drawing blood. There's no fighting that. Jim digs his heels into Spock's back, surges up, and comes all over himself.

"Captain," Spock says in a choked voice, and then there's more warm-wet spreading between their bodies.

The Gentarans are a full-service sex-ritual-conducting people. Jim has to say that for them. A temple attendant passes through the crowd, doling out wet washcloths, smiling beneficently.

Jim swabs cursorily at himself and then practically leaps back into his uniform. Spock dresses in a slightly less frantic fashion and checks his tricorder one last time.

"Our readings are complete now, Captain," he reports, in such an efficient first officer tone that Jim could almost convince himself that the last half hour was just one big hallucination.

They follow the rest of the crowd out of the temple. In the village square, the same Gentaran woman that Jim had spoken with earlier comes forward to greet them. "I do hope that you enjoyed the ritual?" she says, with a politely inquiring smile.

"It was most informative," Spock answers.

This isn't exactly the word Jim would have chosen.

They transport back to the ship, Spock bent intently over his precious data. Scotty greets them with a hearty, "Gentlemen, it's good to have you back home. I assume all went well down on Gentara?"

"I think we made some inroads in cross-cultural understanding," Jim says, with a hard-fought-for straight face.

He does his best to avoid Spock for the next few days, as much as a captain can avoid his first officer. It probably isn't an approach that the Starfleet manual would recommend, but hey, every captain has his own style, right? Spock seems content enough to be avoided, or perhaps he just doesn't notice, too consumed by his analysis of the Gentaran data.

At last, though, Spock corners Jim in his ready room. Okay, _fine_ , so it's less cornering and more like a simple request to enter. Either way, Jim feels trapped.

"May I have a moment, Captain?" Spock says, datapad in hand.

"Sure." Jim sounds much less begrudging about it than he actually feels.

"I wished to speak with you about our mission to Gentara," Spock continues.

In the back of Jim's mind, he must have known he couldn't put this off forever. He swallows hard. "Go ahead."

"The data we gathered has proven quite useful. Their 'temple' houses a power source, and I have been able to extrapolate some technical schematics that should enable Mr. Scott to improve the efficiency of our own engines."

Jim stares. That's _all_ Spock has to say to him about Gentara?

Somehow he manages to make the appropriate response. "Hey, good work there, Spock. I'm sure Mr. Scott will be very excited."

"I believe he will be at that," Spock agrees. He gives Jim a formal nod and departs, the doors sliding smoothly closed after him.

Jim should be pleased—thrilled even—to have gotten off so easily, without even one god-awful conversation about it. This has to be the simplest resolution to inappropriate fraternization the galaxy has ever seen. And yet...

And yet.

The fact that Spock can so easily dismiss what will be jolting Jim awake, overheated and sticky in awkward places, for who knows how long feels like a problem.

A nagging, frustrating, slightly offensive problem.

Jim leans back in his chair, fingers tented thoughtfully beneath his chin. He's always met problems head on, with creative solutions. There's no reason to stop now, he figures.

And then he smiles.


End file.
